I've come to the sad conclusion that if the white characters in the Broadway musical Hamilton
(= every character who speaks, that is) were played by white actors,
Hamilton would please Donald Trump.
Hamilton is the story of a "self-starter, who worked harder, was smarter...", which is how Trump sees himself--and he too is the son of a Scottish immigrant.
(Trump's mother, Mary MacLeod (1912–2000), immigrated to the United States from Scotland in 1930.)
How to remedy this?
Easy.
1. Include a a running commentary from a Black character. There’s no existing candidate, so write the part ––say, a Hamilton family "servant" [code word for slave].
2. Cast a white actor as that non-white character.
There.
Solved it, to my satisfaction.
___________________
II. Fluff 'n' Stuff
I have no deep thoughts on Downton Abbey.
I watched one episode and thought it was "empty gorgeousness", as Hilary Mantel called such historical dramas. That gives a lot of pleasure, it just isn't my thing.
But it did promise to be gorgeous--like these Royal Doulton plates.
(I photographed them, below, as I was leaving work yesterday, and the afternoon sun obscures their details.)
They are perfect for the end-cap where I display pretty things.
They didn't sell at $10 each, and I doubt they'll sell at $5 either, but I like it when displays stick around.
I bet I'll eventually have to mark them down again, but if I priced them $1.99 now...
Poof! There'd go my display.
The last DA movie is in theaters now, so I suggested,
"For your Downtown Abbey dinner party?"
We get gorgeous antique stemware ^ too.
Etched crystal, cut glass, etc. Bowls, plates, and vases too. It barely moves, even priced 99 cents a piece.
Tea cups don't sell either.
Nobody drinks out of 6 oz. cups. I did for a minute, then went back to mugs.
I recently brought home a mug from the state where I grew up (below).
And I'm starting a book set in the year I was born (in a different state)--the year the Berlin Wall went up. (I'm still reading the history of sugar book too.)
I haven't had to bring in my Boston fern yet. It's chilly at night, but days have been unseasonably warm here--hot even, in the high 80ºs in the late afternoons this week.
Hard to believe it's October tomorrow.
III. Recharging. Without a Nice Cup of Tea.
I was surprised how drained I felt after hanging the God's eyes three days ago.
I said that to a friend, who commented,
"Well, you expended a great deal of chi!
Time to recharge your battery."
Yes, that's it.
For a month, I wove a lot of life energy into those eyes.
I thought I'd roll right on with making them, but oof--I'm out of steam.
I'm taking a break.
Yesterday after I left work, I was admiring them on the fence. Only a few have been taken.
A man, woman, and their two little kids came walking by.
The kids ran ahead and stopped and were handling the eyes.
"Do you know what these are?" the man asked.
I explained ("like guardian angels")
--and I added that they could take one, if they wanted. "I know the person who made them."
"We can?!" he said. "You know the person?"
He seemed impressed, and I left them looking closely at the eyes.
I suppose I should put up a sign, Take One.
But, like the plates, I don't mind if they linger.
Also, I kinda don't even have the energy to make a sign.
I'm done.
For now.
But probably not for long.
I have lots of beautiful yarn--a friend just sent me more!--and I have one hour’s listening left of Smoke and Ash, the audio book about tea and opium in China.
The thing that most amazes me is that the plant material that drove all of this-- European colonial drug smuggling, enslaved workers growing sugar on plantation --is now an everyday item you can buy for a couple bucks at any grocery store:
TEA.
Tea!
I have a box in my cupboard from a year ago.
A year, because that's when I quit eating added sugar,
last year around Halloween.
Like the Brits, I like sugar in my tea, with milk. A lot of sugar.
One lump or two?
Actually, six.
Funny, because I dislike sugar in coffee. (Luckily.) But they're different brews. I would probably engage in illegal trade to get coffee.
Hamilton would please Donald Trump.
Hamilton is the story of a "self-starter, who worked harder, was smarter...", which is how Trump sees himself--and he too is the son of a Scottish immigrant.
(Trump's mother, Mary MacLeod (1912–2000), immigrated to the United States from Scotland in 1930.)
How to remedy this?
Easy.
1. Include a a running commentary from a Black character. There’s no existing candidate, so write the part ––say, a Hamilton family "servant" [code word for slave].
2. Cast a white actor as that non-white character.
There.
Solved it, to my satisfaction.
___________________
II. Fluff 'n' Stuff
I have no deep thoughts on Downton Abbey.
I watched one episode and thought it was "empty gorgeousness", as Hilary Mantel called such historical dramas. That gives a lot of pleasure, it just isn't my thing.
But it did promise to be gorgeous--like these Royal Doulton plates.
(I photographed them, below, as I was leaving work yesterday, and the afternoon sun obscures their details.)
They are perfect for the end-cap where I display pretty things.
They didn't sell at $10 each, and I doubt they'll sell at $5 either, but I like it when displays stick around.
I bet I'll eventually have to mark them down again, but if I priced them $1.99 now...
Poof! There'd go my display.
The last DA movie is in theaters now, so I suggested,
"For your Downtown Abbey dinner party?"
We get gorgeous antique stemware ^ too.
Etched crystal, cut glass, etc. Bowls, plates, and vases too. It barely moves, even priced 99 cents a piece.
Tea cups don't sell either.
Nobody drinks out of 6 oz. cups. I did for a minute, then went back to mugs.
I recently brought home a mug from the state where I grew up (below).
And I'm starting a book set in the year I was born (in a different state)--the year the Berlin Wall went up. (I'm still reading the history of sugar book too.)
I haven't had to bring in my Boston fern yet. It's chilly at night, but days have been unseasonably warm here--hot even, in the high 80ºs in the late afternoons this week.
Hard to believe it's October tomorrow.
III. Recharging. Without a Nice Cup of Tea.
I was surprised how drained I felt after hanging the God's eyes three days ago.
I said that to a friend, who commented,
"Well, you expended a great deal of chi!
Time to recharge your battery."
Yes, that's it.
For a month, I wove a lot of life energy into those eyes.
I thought I'd roll right on with making them, but oof--I'm out of steam.
I'm taking a break.
Yesterday after I left work, I was admiring them on the fence. Only a few have been taken.
A man, woman, and their two little kids came walking by.
The kids ran ahead and stopped and were handling the eyes.
"Do you know what these are?" the man asked.
I explained ("like guardian angels")
--and I added that they could take one, if they wanted. "I know the person who made them."
"We can?!" he said. "You know the person?"
He seemed impressed, and I left them looking closely at the eyes.
I suppose I should put up a sign, Take One.
But, like the plates, I don't mind if they linger.
Also, I kinda don't even have the energy to make a sign.
I'm done.
For now.
But probably not for long.
I have lots of beautiful yarn--a friend just sent me more!--and I have one hour’s listening left of Smoke and Ash, the audio book about tea and opium in China.
The thing that most amazes me is that the plant material that drove all of this-- European colonial drug smuggling, enslaved workers growing sugar on plantation --is now an everyday item you can buy for a couple bucks at any grocery store:
TEA.
Tea!
I have a box in my cupboard from a year ago.
A year, because that's when I quit eating added sugar,
last year around Halloween.
Like the Brits, I like sugar in my tea, with milk. A lot of sugar.
One lump or two?
Actually, six.
Funny, because I dislike sugar in coffee. (Luckily.) But they're different brews. I would probably engage in illegal trade to get coffee.
